


Bed, Bath, and Beyond

by p1013



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crack, Did I mention this is crack?, Humor, M/M, Masturbation, POV Harry Potter, pillow sex, sentient body pillow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:54:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24557980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p1013/pseuds/p1013
Summary: Draco becomes a redeemed bad boy in the media after the War and suddenly, there's Malfoy merch everywhere. Ron gifts Harry a body pillow with Malfoy on it, and Harry maybe likes it a bit too much.So does the pillow.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 100
Kudos: 460





	1. Pillow Talk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [M0stlyVoid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/M0stlyVoid/gifts).



> Inspired by the meme:
> 
> In the Harry Potter universe, where paintings and images can interact with those looking at them, "waifu pillows" are probably a lot more interesting.

When Harry imagined his life after the War—curled up in the Forest of Dean or hidden away in Shell Cottage, waiting for the nightmare glimpse of Voldemort's mind invading his sleep—he always thought not being scared would be the hardest thing to get used to. He is somewhere between pleasantly surprised and horrified to learn that it's actually seeing Draco Malfoy's face plastered across Diagon Alley, smiling from shop windows as crowds of teenage girls (and boys) coo over the color of his eyes and the drape of his hair.

Harry expected many things to happen to Malfoy after the War ended. After all, his family was part of Voldemort's inner circle. They'd been directly involved in Dumbledore's death. They'd housed Voldemort and helped overthrow the government. Malfoy himself had the Mark scrawled across his arm like a stain. Harry had gone to bed with visions of Azkaban and suffering and a slow wasting away easing him into sleep. Instead, Malfoy and his parents had become the (literal) poster children for reform. Narcissa's quiet dignity, Lucius's resigned remorse, and Draco's shining reconciliation had swept the Wizarding World by storm, leaving behind a trail of admirers of all ages and an acquittal that had Ron shocked into silence when it was announced.

The merchandise had been the biggest shock, though. Someone got it into their head to put Malfoy's face on a plate, and it went downhill from there. As Harry wanders through Diagon, here to pick up Quidditch supplies, he's greeted time and time again by Draco sodding Malfoy, his pointed chin tilted conspiratorially, grey eyes winking with charm and charisma, mouth curled into a smile that makes heat pool in _other people's_ stomachs.

Honestly, it's almost as odd as dying.

Doing his absolute best to ignore all of the gleaming Malfoys leering at him from the shop windows, Harry ducks into Quality Quidditch Supplies, hurries through the process of buying broom polish and a new set of bristle clippers, and finds himself face-to-face with an incredibly realistic standing display.

"Potter. What a surprise." Harry blinks, then realizes he's not staring at another piece of Malfoy Memorabilia littering the shop, but the man himself. Heat rushes to Harry's face, and he opens his mouth to stammer some kind of response when Malfoy turns his attention to the side, frowns, and gives Harry a quick, perfunctory nod of the head. "Lovely chat. Must do this again soon."

Confused, mouth still hanging open, Harry nearly reaches to stop Malfoy before he ducks into an aisle and disappears behind a display of a Malfoy-branded set of Quidditch robes.

"Hey, Harry," a familiar voice says from behind him before an equally familiar hand clamps down on his shoulder. "Malfoy giving you trouble?"

Turning to Ron, who's wearing his Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes uniform, complete with gleaming badge, Harry shuts his mouth and shakes his head. "No. I thought I ran into a display, honestly."

"It's ridiculous." Ron grins conspiratorially. "We've got our own product line starting soon."

"You've got to be kidding me. Really?"

"Yeah, that Malfoy crap is flying off the shelves. George figured we might as well cash in."

Harry sighs. "Do I even want to know what you'll be selling?"

"Oh, it's brilliant." Ron gestures towards the robes dismissively. "Way better than this lot. We're offering a fully interactive experience. Get to know Draco Malfoy, up close and personal."

"That sounds awful."

"Doesn't it? Still, after we work out a few kinks, it's going to sell like crazy."

"Well, I wish you the best of luck with it." Harry takes a step towards the register and sets his supplies down. "I'd just like to go a day without seeing the prat's face plastered over everything."

When he turns his attention to the salesclerk, he's greeted with a blank expression, brightly flushing cheeks, and the look of a man caught by a stunning spell. Used to this response when he's out in public, Harry rolls his eyes and starts patting his robes for a quill. "Yeah, it's me," he says as he finds one. "I'd be happy to autograph… whatever. The receipt?"

The salesclerk swallows, then flushes brighter. He looks like he might pop.

"I'm sorry, I just… I overheard what you were saying about the Draco line? And I'm very sorry, but it's store policy, and…" He reaches under the counter and pulls out a tin with Malfoy's smirking face on the label. "It's free with every purchase over seven Galleons. Though I'd love an autograph, if you'd like."

Harry does his best to smile without cracking his teeth, pays, and stuffs Malfoy's face to the bottom of the bag the clerk hands him. With an angry flourish, he signs the receipt and shoves it towards the clerk. "Have a lovely day."

"You too"—he flashes a sheepish grin before squinting down at Harry's autograph—"Mr Patter!"

Ron laughs so hard, he's nearly sick outside the shop. Harry doesn't help by punching him in the stomach and storming off.


	2. Pillow Fight

It's a few weeks later when the package arrives. Harry isn't expecting anything, so when the unknown owl swoops through his open window, a padded parcel clenched in its talons, it catches Harry entirely by surprise. It certainly has nothing to do with his half-idle fixation on the tin with Malfoy's face on it, distracting Harry from his work while it winks up at him.

The owl drops the package in the middle of Harry's desk, clicks its beak at him a few times, then hops out of the window to disappear into the London haze. Still trying to catch up to current events, Harry picks up the package, flipping it over to find a card tucked underneath the twine.

_Hey Harry,_

_Thought you might like this. It'll be on shelves in a few weeks. I'd love to know what you think!_

_Ron_

This isn't the first time Ron's sent him Wheezes products to test, and considering how well those prior events have gone, Harry doesn't have high hopes. Though there were those toffees…

He unties the knot holding the twine together, and as the paper falls off the package, the contents start to grow. Pushing back from his desk, Harry hopes that the still expanding whatever-it-is won't knock into his open inkwell. Thankfully, it doesn't, but as the growth slows, Harry frowns, confused by what he's looking at.

It's a pillow, around a meter and a half long and half a meter wide. The fabric is a sedate cream, covered in gold Wheezes logos in a diamond pattern. Confused as to why his best friend would send Harry home decor, he reaches forward to run his hand over the material. It's soft and cool to the touch. He presses down, pleased with the resistance and bounce of the padding. Whatever it is, it's the kind of pillow that Harry likes, not too firm, not too soft. Grinning now, he picks it up, ready to cart it off to his bedroom.

"Hey! Watch where you're putting those hands!"

Harry screams, then drops the pillow back on his desk. The ink pot goes flying, splashing its contents all over the carpet.

"Fuck!" Harry scrambles for his wand, casting a quick _Scourgify_ before the ink can set, then glares at the pillow. "What the fuck?"

Carefully, as if it might bite him, Harry reaches out and flips the pillow over. Sprawled across the front, his shirt open to the third button, blond hair disheveled and flopped artfully across his forehead, grey eyes heavy-lidded and dark, is Draco Malfoy. Or rather, an image of Draco Malfoy. Like one of the living portraits at Hogwarts, Malfoy shifts and draws his eyes over Harry, his mouth quirking into a smirk.

"What the actual fuck."

"I thought I recognized that voice," Malfoy purrs, running his hand through the open V of his shirt. "Though I'm not sure how much I appreciate the welcome."

"I'm going to kill him," Harry says, still staring. "I'm going to find him and wring his ginger neck."

"Weasley?" Malfoy frowns. "Whatever for? He seems like a nice enough chap."

Harry's sense of disbelief grows. "What is happening right now?"

"Nothing, I'm afraid, but if you get those hands back here and put them to a more… appropriate use, that could be fixed." 

Malfoy winks.

Harry storms from the study, down the hallway, and into the sitting room where his fireplace roars to life. Floo powder turns the flames green, and then he's shouting Ron's name into the fire.

"Harry!" Ron smiles back, seemingly unaware that his death is imminent. "What're you Floo calling for?"

"You know _exactly_ what I'm calling for, and I'm coming through so I can _murder you_."

"You got the pillow, then?"

"I got the… Shove over, you absolute pillock!"

A second later, Harry stumbles from the fireplace into Ron's office in Diagon Alley. It's a bit of a squeeze, Ron's desk taking up most of the space that isn't occupied with extra merchandise that he and George can't fit in the storerooms or the shelves.

"You look like shite, mate."

"What in Merlin's name," Harry asks, his hands pressed to the edge of Ron's desk as he leans over the top, "would make you think sending me a Draco bloody Malfoy pillow would be a good idea?"

"You were obsessed with him in sixth year. I figured you'd be good quality control."

"Quality control."

"Yeah. You know him better than I do, don't you?"

"Ronald."

"Harold."

"I'm sending it back."

Ron stands as Harry spins back to the fireplace. "Wait, Harry! It's really important, please."

Harry's shoulders droop at the plea in Ron's voice.

"Honestly," Ron continues, "we just need you to spend a day or two with it, just to make sure we've got all of the oddities figured out. The damn things keep acting up, something about translating portrait magic into fabric, I don't know. Hermione tried explaining it to me the other day, but you know how she is."

"What kind of oddities?" Harry turns around, feeling defeated.

Ron's earnest, his eyes bright. "Nothing to worry about, I promise. His personality is just a bit more… colorful than when we were at school. George and I figured that you'd be able to find the commonalities in the pillow's behavior, and then we can adjust the spell to address them. But if it's too much to ask…"

That does it. With a heavy sigh, Harry points at Ron. "You owe me for this."

"Anything you want, I swear."

"Right." Harry goes back to the fireplace, grabs a handful of Floo powder and tosses it into the flames. "I'll let you know what I figure out."

When he steps back through into his house, Harry can hear someone shouting. They somehow sound both annoyed and sultry, and with a groan, he heads back to the study and the pillow, only slightly concerned about what George and Ron would find odd about a facsimile of Draco Malfoy.


	3. Pillowcase

When Harry walks back into his study, the Draco Malfoy on the pillow perks up. He _almost_ sits up. At least, it looks like he sits up. His elbows are propped behind him, and his shirt gapes around his collar bone and well-muscled chest. One knee is raised, the other stretched out before him as if in invitation. Chin tilted up, eyes heavy-lidded, he smiles at Harry with a softness that seems out of place on his sharp features.

The attempt at sultry is, of course, completely ruined because it's a bloody pillow.

"What is wrong with you?" Harry asks, uncertain if he's talking to himself or the pillow.

"That's rather rude of you, Potter. I'd expect better manners from the Saviour of the Wizarding World."

"So, you know who I am."

The pillow scoffs. "Of course, I know who you are. Everyone knows who you are."

"But you…" Harry runs his fingers through his hair, a headache quickly forming. "You're _Draco_."

"Yes and no." The pillow-Draco lays back down. Crossing his arms behind his head, he continues to leer at Harry. "I'm partially Draco, in the sense that I look like him and I have some of his memories, but I'm not _really_ him."

"But you're almost really him."

"I'm almost really a part of him. Portrait magic is complicated, and I'm only maybe two-thirds to three-quarters the real Draco Malfoy. The rest"—he winks—"is all me."

Harry isn't sure he wants to know what _that_ means, but he nods as if he does. "All right, then. So, why'd Ron send you?"

"Obviously for you to have your way with me." Pillow-Draco grins, bright and fierce in a way that has Harry feeling uncomfortable in a variety of ways. "I am at your tender mercies."

"I think I can see the problem," Harry says quietly. He bends down and picks up the pillow, which moans theatrically. "Please stop."

"I'm confused," Pillow-Draco says into the side of Harry's leg. "I thought you liked me."

"I don't like anything about this."

"Huh. Weasley made it sound like that wasn't the case."

"Ron's full of shit."

"And I'm full of fiberfill, doesn't mean we don't know what we're talking about."

That headache comes knocking its way through, flinging itself to the forefront of Harry's brain to pound icepicks into his right temple. Wincing, he carries the pillow to his bedroom, the overly large thing flopping ungracefully against Harry's legs as he walks. 

When he steps into his room, he stills, entirely lost as to where to put the damn thing. On the bed is absolutely out of the question. Even though the pillow is soft and pleasantly squishy, there's no way Harry's going to run the risk of—he shudders—cuddling with it, especially since the pillow seems to have much more lewd ideas about what they should be doing together. And Harry is an unmitigated cuddler. It drove Ginny crazy. They'd wake up in the morning, and he'd be plastered against her back, arms and legs tangled with hers, his face in her riotous red hair, Ginny exhausted and irritated from a night of little to no sleep. He'd never fully broken the habit, but he'd been getting better right before they broke up. If he'd settled for a pillow after that, well… That was between him and the sham, wasn't it?

Shaking himself out of thought, he settles on the small armchair in the corner of the room. He positions the pillow so that it's sitting up, and Pillow-Draco takes to the pose like an art piece, leaning back as if he senses the chair behind him, his arms held as if they were resting on the arms of the chair, his long legs crossed delicately at the ankles. Somehow during their trek from the study to the bedroom, he'd undone the rest of the buttons on his shirt, and he lets the fabric gape wider as he watches Harry watching him.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to get more comfortable?" Pillow-Draco asks, his eyes traveling over Harry's body. Considering Harry's wearing the oversized Weasley sweater Molly knit him last Christmas and a pair of ratty jeans, the heat in Pillow-Draco's eyes is entirely out of sorts. That Harry feels it like a touch is only a sign that his headache is quickly morphing into a stroke.

"I'm plenty comfortable as I am," he forces out before turning to the door. "Just… Stay put. I'll be back later."

"Potter."

Harry's heard Malfoy say his name a million times. It's been said in greeting, in fear, in anger. It's been shouted across courtyards and hissed across dueling grounds. But never has it been a petulant whine. When Harry glances back into the bedroom, Pillow-Draco has his arms crossed and an unflattering pout on his face.

"Prat is never around when I need him," he mutters to himself, staring into whatever exists outside of the bounds of the pillowcase. "Oh, let me go save the world, Draco. No need to worry about you, Draco, noooo." Pillow-Draco scoffs. "Never thinks to ask about what _I_ want or what _I_ need. Preposterous, honestly. Who went and made him in charge of things, anyway? Not me, that's for certain. He should only be in charge of making me happy. Don't know why I waste my time…"

Harry takes a careful step back, then another, doing his best to avoid the creaky floorboard a few feet from his bedroom door. He's successful, but the hallway runner catches under his feet, and with a sense of inevitability, as if capital-F Fate would ever let him escape this weird, uncertain, awkward moment gracefully, Harry trips and comes crashing to the floor.

As he stares up at the ceiling, his head pounding and Pillow-Draco shouting concernedly from the bedroom, Harry wonders in a daze what, exactly, it means that two-thirds to three-quarters of Draco Malfoy wants Harry to make him happy, and what that implies about the whole man in turn.


	4. Pillow Burn

Hours—and two pain potions—later, Harry wonders why he never realized that propping Pillow-Draco up in a chair in the room where Harry undresses for bed would be a problem. Ever since their exchange earlier, he hasn't wanted to get too handsy with the pillow, which is equally parts infuriating and embarrassing for Harry. After all, the thing isn't sentient, not _really_. It's not like there are consent issues with Harry flipping it over so it can't watch him undress, but when Pillow-Draco visibly perks up as he enters his bedroom, the hallway light spilling across the floor in a wash of gold that glints in the soft glide of Pillow-Draco's hair and the wetted part of his lips, Harry feels a distinct pang of something that absolutely requires a consenting party, and it all becomes an awful, embarrassing tangle in his gut.

" _Nox,_ " he says instead of hello, and the room falls dark around them.

"Very unsporting of you, Potter," Pillow-Draco grouses from the corner of the room. Harry's eyes are already adjusting to the low light, so he hurriedly starts undressing, hoping that cotton-poly blend doesn't lend itself to night vision. 

Not that he understands how the damn thing works anyway.

He jumps into bed, though, burying himself under his sheets and blankets like a fox going to ground. With only a bit of his face peeking out from underneath the covers, he stares at the wall, waiting for the familiar tug of sleep to drag him away from this god-awful day.

But instead of the usual easy slide into sleep, Harry finds himself wildly uncomfortable. His sheets, freshly changed the day before, are somehow rough and bunched up around his feet. He kicks at them, trying to get them to lay flat, but it only makes it worse. Flopping onto his back, he gives the blankets a quick flick, lifting them up in a wave to settle in an even, gentle layer over top of him.

Except for the top sheet, which insists on keeping a sharply delineated fold right over Harry's feet. He flicks the blankets again, but it only gets worse, the crease growing with each attempt to destroy it. Growling, Harry throws the covers back and gets out of bed, muttering to himself as he pulls everything off the mattress to remake it, sans folded bloody sheets.

"Well, well," a quiet voice says from the corner of the room. Harry freezes, horrified that he would forget something as unforgettable as a sentient pillow. "Aren't you looking fit?"

Eyes closed as if that will do anything to help, Harry breathes and keeps his back to the corner of the room. His limbs stiff, hands numb, he takes his time putting the bed back to rights. Throughout the process, though he tries to drown out the noise by singing quietly in his head, Pillow-Draco gives running commentary.

"You've got a lovely dip in your back, right above the hem of your shorts, did you know that? I bet my thumbs would fit perfectly there."

"Those legs are simply divine. I don't remember you running when we were at school together, but I can tell you've taken it up. If you were to wrap them around my waist, I think you could hold yourself up entirely without my help."

"I should have made you drop things more when we were in school together. The view is simply…" Pillow-Draco trails off, sighs. "Well, missed opportunities, I guess."

When Harry finally gets back into his bed, the sheets are perfectly soft and welcoming, the blankets, a wonderful weight over his body, and his blood is burning through him like lava. He's glad he kept his back to the pillow while making the bed because the tent in his shorts would've been obvious otherwise, and he's grateful for the darkness of his bedroom because, as he turns to his side, his back still to Pillow-Draco, he knows it'll hide what he's about to do.

He wouldn't admit it to anyone but himself, but this isn't the first time he's wanked to the thought of Draco Malfoy. There'd been a few times at school where he'd been pulling himself off, and the blond git's smirk had flashed before Harry's eyes right as he was coming, that taunting voice urging him on. After the War, while Malfoy had started working his way into the good graces of the wizarding community and his face had been plastered across _The Prophet_ and _The Quibbler_ and every bloody magazine known to man, Harry had indulged again. And again.

Okay, Draco Malfoy has featured in Harry's fantasies for a while. It's fine. He's a grown man with healthy appetites, and Malfoy is, objectively, fit as fuck. It's been a long time since Harry's been out with anyone, too. It's hard to date with the mantle of heroism coming along as a third wheel. So, as he takes his aching cock in hand, he lets himself slide into the knowledge that this is just to relieve an itch, a biological need that he's left waiting for too long.

He's definitely not getting off to a pillow.

Running his hand slowly up his length, he closes his eyes and lets himself drift into thoughts of Malfoy, his well-muscled body pressing against Harry's, holding him down against the mattress. Malfoy's voice whispers taunts and praise as Harry writhes beneath him, urging him on, telling Harry how to touch himself. Harry imagines the press of Malfoy's cock against his hip, imagines that Malfoy wants this as much as Harry does. A groan escapes from his mouth, but lost to the pleasure his hand and his mind are drawing out of his body, he doesn't think too much of it.

"Hey, Potter."

The voice blends with his fantasy, and he sighs softly.

"Potter. What're you doing over there?"

The sexual haze breaks, and when Harry groans again, it's not in pleasure.

"Nothing." His voice is gravel rough and panted out. "I'm not doing anything."

"It doesn't sound like you're doing nothing."

"Please. Please, leave me alone."

"If I call you Daddy, can I watch?"

Harry's dick twitches, and he gasps. "Merlin, no."

"Didn't sound like a no."

Frustrated and aroused and hating himself for it, Harry rolls onto his other side. Pillow-Draco has a hand pressed to the front of his trousers, and when he sees Harry looking, his fingers clench. "What do you want, Harry?"

His eyes slam shut, and he moans. "This is not happening."

"Nothing will happen that you don't want. I promise."

Draco's voice rolls over Harry in a wicked wave, and sweat blossoms across his shoulders and back. "You're not him."

"But I'm close enough." Pillow-Draco sighs. "Open your eyes, Harry. Let me see."

He's going to hate himself for this in the morning, but Harry does as he's told. Pillow-Draco has the fly of his trousers open and his cock pulled through the opening. It's bloody gorgeous, thick and long and dark at the tip where his blood is pooling. Harry licks his lips, and Pillow-Draco flashes a smile like a taunt. "It's impolite not to share, Potter."

Choosing not to think about this too hard, Harry throws the covers back. The cool air of his bedroom feels like a caress, and he lets his body arch into it. Pillow-Draco lets out a pleased sound, his fingers tightening. Harry watches as Pillow-Draco runs his thumb over the crown of his cock, then arches his hips, fucking into his fist.

"Shit." Pleasure builds at a frightening pace, and Harry beats it back, teasing himself as he watches Draco's slender fingers move over his skin. It's a punch to the gut every time he moans, a bone-deep ache that Harry knows is going to haunt him for days after, but he can't look away, can't stop his own hand from mirroring Draco's movements, can't help but want to touch and taste. This is worse than a fantasy. It's somehow too real and not real enough, and as heat builds until it's overwhelming, until Harry's body is covered in sweat and arching off the bed, his throat tight as he holds back his keening need, he knows that there's no way that he can keep this fucking pillow in his house another day longer.

"I'm close," Pillow-Draco moans. He reaches up to pluck at his nipple, catching the peaked tip between his fingers in a tight pinch. "Merlin, Harry. I need… Fuck, I _need_."

It pushes Harry over the razor-wire edge. The orgasm plows through him, guts him. Come covers his hand and his stomach, stains his sheets, leaves him drained and full.

"That was…" He pants, fights for breath. "I'm never going to live this down."


	5. Throw Pillow

After a rather raucous morning—Pillow-Draco had appreciated Harry picking him up until he realized things weren't going to go the way he wanted—Harry stumbles into Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes with the pillow clasped under his arm and covered with a thoroughly-cast _Muffliato_. The main room of the shop is empty, likely due to the early morning and the fact that they aren't _technically_ open yet, but there's no way that Harry's going to do this with an audience.

"Ronald Weasley!" His voice echoes through the room. "Where the hell are you?"

"In back!" comes the muffled response. Shoulders squared, back straight, Harry plunges forward.

"You have got to take this thing back and start over. I don't know what kind of magic you used to mimic Malfoy's personality, but you've got it completely wrong. This thing is _nothing_ like him." Harry pushes his way into the storeroom, still talking. "I swear, if Malfoy said half of the things that have come out of this pillow's mouth over the last couple of days, I'd never have made it through school."

"That's rather interesting to hear," drawls a voice that is absolutely not coming from the silenced pillow under Harry's arm. "I thought I did quite a good job of nearly getting you expelled. Clearly, I should have tried harder."

Malfoy, Ron, and George are standing around a worktable, a series of notes and diagrams spread out across the top along with fabric squares and piles of stuffing. As Harry stills just inside the room, Malfoy smirks. Harry's ears are ringing, his heart pounding. He is _not_ getting a semi hearing Malfoy say "harder," his posh accent drawing out the vowels like a touch. "Malfoy."

"Potter."

And now he's fully hard. He hurriedly moves the pillow in front of his crotch, realizes where he's placed Pillow-Draco's face, and flips it over.

"Did you silence the damn thing?" Ron asks, staring directly where Harry wants him not to look. "That's brilliant."

" _Finite Incantatem,_ " George says half-distractedly, his eyes still on the plans. "Thanks for coming, Harry."

"Malfoy," the pillow says. "Good to see myself."

"The pleasure is all mine," Draco replies, sarcasm heavy in his voice.

The pillow ignores it. "You won't believe what Potter and I got up to last night." Three heads lift simultaneously, and Harry's eyes widen. "Have I a story to tell."

"No, you don't," Harry shouts before placing his hand over the pillow's mouth. "Nothing happened last night."

"I don't know why you think that's going to help," the pillow and Malfoy say at the same time, in the same flat voice.

"Can we focus, please?" George says. "What'd you two do last night?"

"Nothing!" Harry shouts as the pillow starts laughing.

"That's for me to know and me to find out. Safe to say, it's good news for the both of us."

"Ron, I'm going to your office to burn this thing," Harry says, spinning around sharply.

"Get back here, you idiot." Ron sighs. "Whatever's going on with that pillow, I think we've figured out where the flaw is."

"Fantastic. So, it's safe to burn it."

Malfoy laughs. "Why don't you leave that thing with us, and you can run away like you so clearly want to?"

It's like a switch is flipped, and Harry's urge to flee is suddenly replaced with a burning desire to stay exactly where he is. "I think I'll hang around. What d'you need to change?"

"The material. We thought we'd be safe with cotton because magical paintings are done on canvas, and honestly, they're basically the same thing." George points at Harry, eyes bright with excitement. "But that's the thing. They're _not_ the same thing. It took a bit of trying, but by using a silk blend, we've managed to replicate the weave so that the magic will take more firmly. We're talking a ninety to ninety-five percent authenticity level, completely indistinguishable from the real thing to the layman. We're going to make a _fortune._ "

"He wanked to us," the pillow says, apropos of nothing.

The light in George's eye goes from avaricious joy to keen interest. "What."

"Yes, please enlighten the group," Malfoy adds.

Ron takes a step towards the door. "I think I'm goin—"

"He likes us. A _lot_."

"This is a nightmare. I'm having a horrible, realistic nightmare. I am going to wake up in five minutes, and none of this is going to have happened."

"If you could pause in the theatrics, Potter, I'd like to hear what I have to say."

Ron makes a retching noise, and Harry feels an answering wave of nausea rise in his gut. The pillow continues, gleefully.

"He wants you to call him Daddy."

"Straight into the fire," Harry says before hurrying to the door, pillow still clenched in his arms. "And then me right after it."

"Harry!" Malfoy's voice rings out across the storeroom. "Don't go too far. I think we need to have a chat."

"And I need to be obliviated. Honestly, mate…" Ron sighs. "I'd never have sent the damn thing if I'd known this is where we'd end up."

"I hate you both." Harry chucks the pillow to the side, delight blossoming in his chest when it makes a strangled yelp, then flees into the store front with George's laughter and Ron's gagging trailing after him. Malfoy is, both blessedly and horribly, silent.


	6. Pillow Princes(s)

Lost in a haze of embarrassment and a desperate desire to never be seen by another living human ever again, Harry wanders his way to the Leaky. Hannah Abbott is behind the counter, and she perks up when he walks in.

"Harry! Make yourself comfortable. What can I get you?"

"Ogden's," he says before falling into an open stool at the bar.

"It's ten in the morning."

"Make it two, then."

She frowns but pulls a glass from under the bar. "Let's start with one. You want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

"Okay. Getting day drunk it is, then. You want anything to sop up the alcohol with?"

"No, I think my dignity will do a good enough job."

She stops half-way through pouring his drink, a very concerned expression on her face. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"I'll be fine, I promise. Just had a rough morning, is all." She finishes pouring the drink and passes it to him. "Thank you."

He's halfway through his first swallow when the door to the pub opens and Draco Malfoy walks inside. Groaning internally, Harry finishes the entire glass in one long, painful swallow.

"Merlin, Potter, it can't have been that bad," Malfoy says as he approaches. "It's just a bloody pillow."

"I don't want to talk about this," Harry says to the ceiling, his head tilted back as he blinks away the burn of the Ogden's. "Can we please pretend that the last fifteen minutes never happened and go back to our usual distant animosity?"

"I don't feel animosity towards you." Malfoy sits on the stool next to Harry and waves Hannah over. "One of the same, please."

As Hannah pours Malfoy a fresh drink and refills Harry's glass, Harry does his best to not combust into embarrassed flames. This has been the most humiliating experience of his life, worse even than his date with Cho, and he'd like for it to be over, though maybe not via self-immolation.

"I don't know why you're so worked up over a pillow," Malfoy continues, as if Harry isn't trying to disappear through sheer force of will. "Or about a wank."

"Christ." He raises his glass to his lips, hoping a mouthful of liquor will keep him from saying anything else.

"I've done it before."

Harry chokes on the sip.

"Don't drown in the stuff, Potter." Malfoy slaps him on the back, hard enough to sting. It does knock the booze from his throat, though, and after a second, Harry gasps in a breath. "There's nothing wrong with you for getting off, honestly."

"To you. To a _pillow_ of you."

"You had a Quidditch spread a few months back that I'm particularly fond of. You don't see me losing my mind in public over it."

"I'm dead, aren't I? This is Hell?"

Malfoy laughs, and the sound is so pleasant, it pushes away Harry's embarrassment for one quiet, gentle moment of delighted amazement. But then Malfoy's genuine smile softens into a heated, indistinct thing, and Harry feels it all come crashing back in a wave of blood to his face and… other places.

"It's fine," Malfoy says as he turns. His knee bumps against Harry's almost accidentally, but Draco presses his leg harder against Harry's, forcing his thighs to fall open. Draco wedges his knee in between them and leans forward. "Honestly, I could hear more about it from you. The pillow was quite close-mouthed once you left."

"Really?"

"No, but I figured you could use a win today." Draco smiles again, then places his hand on Harry's knee. "Maybe a few wins."

Harry swallows, though there's nothing in his mouth except spit and a lack of oxygen. "What're you doing?"

"I thought it was pretty obvious."

"Are you flirting with me?"

"Should've sorted you into Ravenclaw."

Harry puts his hand on top of Draco's. After a moment of sheer pleasure at the feel of Malfoy's skin under his, he lets his Gryffindor courage rush forward, and Harry pulls Malfoy's hand further up his thigh. In for a Knut, in for a Galleon, or whatever. "What're you doing later?"

"Hopefully you," Malfoy says with a wink. "Unless you'd like to go slow."

"Not bloody likely." Harry grabs his whiskey, downs it, then sets the empty glass on the bar. "Hannah, put it on my tab, please! I've got to run."

And, Draco's hand still in his, his laughter filling the room and Harry's chest with something akin to and as overwhelming as joy, Harry drags them both into the street, then into his home and his neatly made bed.

After they do their absolute best to destroy the sheets—Harry whips the pillows into the hallway, cackling—Harry wraps himself around Draco, their sweat-dampened skin sticking as he gets comfortable. But instead of pulling away, Draco pulls Harry closer, letting his head settle in the curve of Draco's shoulder, his arm tucked around Harry's back.

"Don't tell either Weasley I said this," Draco says, his voice rough and sated, "but I love that damned thing."

"I'm still burning it."

**Author's Note:**

> If there's anything the world needs right now, it's a bit of crack fic that we can all laugh at. Gifted to the lovely M0stlyVoid, who deserves laughter more than most right now. Love you, darling. ♥


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